What you’ll find here isn’t pretty.

It’s the debris field of a man who learned everything the slow way —

through fire, through loss, through the kind of love that leaves scorch marks.

Each poem is a fragment:

a bone from an old version of me,

a feather from a wing I ruined,

a petal from a rose I never deserved,

a whisper from a god who watched and said nothing.

Read them in any order.

They all lead to the same place.

These poems are the places where the mask cracks.

Where the Bastard stops pretending he’s made of iron

and lets the truth leak out in ink instead of blood.

Some verses come from the days I was numb.

Some from the days I was dangerous.

Some from the days I was trying to rebuild what I’d already burned.

Together they form the map of a man who’s still learning

how to carry his ghosts without letting them steer.

A meditation on endings, memory, and the strange calm that comes with acceptance.